


Musician

by KennyCosgrove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:10:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KennyCosgrove/pseuds/KennyCosgrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real Dick Roman had a piano gathering dust in the corner of the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musician

“Do you play?” he asked, the air quiet between them.

You could hear the hum of the atmosphere around them, truly. There was stillness, almost nothing. It had been quiet for too long, truly. For which there were no walls to be held, there were no walls to keep him contained, for infinite lingering and presence was a constant once again. Oh, how he longed, ached to be compressed and away from himself, away from his thoughts, away from his simple being, so vast and exploitative, when there was no real knowledge of the character in God’s play itself. The silence was far too vast, and he had heard almost nothing for billions of years, a stillness, a quiet before being dragged down to Hell.

Another age had passed, and another, before pulled from this chasm by God’s children, and thrust into the arms of a creature long forgotten. One he’d never forgotten.

“No. He might have. I don’t.” Here in arms again he was, held, encased, never to be let go again - no, never again. He’d been isolated once in a personal Hell, he would never venture back again without him. He was warm, he was soft, such life and everlasting that had been burrowed so deep and so far away that to excavate his love could be performed by no other. 

He gestured to the piano in the corner of the room. Large and grand it was, very stark white, he kept it very clean. And yet, no one had played it. It was seldom used, left alone for decoration. It was very alone, very quiet, such a sad thing, forgotten. He’d never noticed it before this point, it was almost begging to be noted amongst the accouterments in the large and lavish home. A slender hand lifted the arms that encased him so tightly, slipping himself from the warm frame as his feet silently padded toward the lone instrument, lifting the lid to reveal the keys, idle and very white.

It wasn’t long before he was approached, the tiny bench before it holding both of them there. Quiet again, a long moment passed, staring at the piano before them, as if they were studying some unknown creature, long forgotten by its creator, long forgotten by its owner. Cold fingers wrapped around the larger hand, guiding carefully along the alabaster, a chord here, a chord there, very slowly. Nothing in particular.

He would let him go, he would repeat them from memory, sliding his hands along the keys, playing the notes in compliance - the piano sounding so hushed, lack of attention making itself quite apparent.

He urged him to play something, anything, something else to admire in his old age, something else to embellish upon - he was quite modest, really. Nothing all that grandiose, nothing very extravagant or notable outside of his already reserved display. So he played for him, his opposite watching him with fascination, resting his head upon his shoulder.

Shutting the lid, he rest his hands in his lap, the sound of his breathing on the shoulder of this form the only sound between them, now. It was all they needed.


End file.
